A single carriage disturbed the otherwise peaceful white scenery. The whinny of its 4 horses and the creak of its wheels were the only sounds in the otherwise silent surrounding. Snow fell slowly from the grey sky as a soft wing blew across the landscape. Yet within this sight of white beauty lurked an evil so atrocious that only few brave men dared to accompany it across the snowy mountains. That evil sat within the carriage, shackled and watched by fear filled eyes.
With a sudden jerk everything came to a halt. The coachmen sat bent over atop his seat, reigns still in hand. With a loud thud the back doors of the carriage swung open as a man clad in black robes and chains clambered out. He turned to chant a final dark prayer before collecting his confiscated scythe from a lock-box atop the roof. "Dear gods I hate this part..." he mumbled to himself as he propped scythe against the carriage. As he held his chained hand to the blade, the man in black robes began to steadily cut off his hands. A normal man would not be able to bear this pain, but he wasn't exactly normal either...in fact, he was accustomed to it. Once the deed was done, his shackles simply slid off what was left of his wrists. Eagerly he crouched down, holding his stumps to the severed pair and as if through a miracle the two now bloody hands reattached themselves. The man sighed, annoyed by his circumstances. In the middle of nowhere, far from his goal and far from any form of civilization. And thus he began a blind journey through the frigid fields of white.
As night turned to day and day to night, the man's pace did not falter. From afar it would have seemed as though he simply wandered aimlessly. But in truth he was following a scent - the wretched stench of death that emanates from the vilest individuals of this world. he was drawn to it, almost helpless in his fascination and curiosity for what could produce such a wondrous smell. And before long, he stood in front of a towering stone gate where he finally returned to what little is left of his senses. "Hello?" he called out as he hammered at the gates "Any murdering psychopaths here or am I just mistaken?"
Fenrir has arrived.
With a sudden jerk everything came to a halt. The coachmen sat bent over atop his seat, reigns still in hand. With a loud thud the back doors of the carriage swung open as a man clad in black robes and chains clambered out. He turned to chant a final dark prayer before collecting his confiscated scythe from a lock-box atop the roof. "Dear gods I hate this part..." he mumbled to himself as he propped scythe against the carriage. As he held his chained hand to the blade, the man in black robes began to steadily cut off his hands. A normal man would not be able to bear this pain, but he wasn't exactly normal either...in fact, he was accustomed to it. Once the deed was done, his shackles simply slid off what was left of his wrists. Eagerly he crouched down, holding his stumps to the severed pair and as if through a miracle the two now bloody hands reattached themselves. The man sighed, annoyed by his circumstances. In the middle of nowhere, far from his goal and far from any form of civilization. And thus he began a blind journey through the frigid fields of white.
As night turned to day and day to night, the man's pace did not falter. From afar it would have seemed as though he simply wandered aimlessly. But in truth he was following a scent - the wretched stench of death that emanates from the vilest individuals of this world. he was drawn to it, almost helpless in his fascination and curiosity for what could produce such a wondrous smell. And before long, he stood in front of a towering stone gate where he finally returned to what little is left of his senses. "Hello?" he called out as he hammered at the gates "Any murdering psychopaths here or am I just mistaken?"
Fenrir has arrived.
